In America, demons wear white hoods. In 1915, The Birth of a Nation casts a spell across America, swelling the Klan’s ranks and drinking deep from the darkest thoughts of white folk. All across the nation they ride, spreading fear and violence among the vulnerable. They plan to bring hell to Earth. But even Ku Kluxes can die. Standing in their way are Maryse Boudreaux and her fellow resistance fighters, a foulmouthed sharpshooter and a Harlem Hellfighter. Armed with blade, bullet, and bomb, they hunt their hunters and send the Klan’s demons straight to hell. But something awful’s brewing in Macon, and the war on hell is about to heat up. Can Maryse stop the Klan before it ends the world?
Release date:
October 13, 2020
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages:
112
Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) creative magic (1) entertaining story (1) escapist/easy read (1) great world-building (1) high stakes (1) imaginative (1) rich setting(s) (1) satisfying ending (1) supernatural elements (1) tense (1) year's top 10 (1)
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Three strong, bad-ass Black women hunting down and shooting, stabbing, and blowing up Ku Klux monsters with ruthless efficiency - what could possibly be a more compelling premise? Well, there's a magic sword, too. And plenty of awesome cosmic horror, as well some dashes of light fantasy. Oh, and these awesome ladies are also bootleggers, for some added swoon! All this adds up to one hell of a phenomenal novella from P. Djèlí Clark that confronts America's racist past and challenges it head on with violent gusto.
To say that I loved Ring Shout is maybe putting it mildly. This ...
more
Three strong, bad-ass Black women hunting down and shooting, stabbing, and blowing up Ku Klux monsters with ruthless efficiency - what could possibly be a more compelling premise? Well, there's a magic sword, too. And plenty of awesome cosmic horror, as well some dashes of light fantasy. Oh, and these awesome ladies are also bootleggers, for some added swoon! All this adds up to one hell of a phenomenal novella from P. Djèlí Clark that confronts America's racist past and challenges it head on with violent gusto.
To say that I loved Ring Shout is maybe putting it mildly. This book gave me life, y'all. In the midst of daily riots against the systemic racism of our American police force and the all-around racist shittiness of Trump and his sycophants (and ooooh boy, with Kamala Harris running as VP, Trump's casual, ingrained, daily racism is about to go full, spit-flying, frothing at the mouth racism, just you wait), this book is a balm. I can only hope it becomes a reckoning.
The Klan is gathering in Macon, Georgia and their numbers are growing fast thanks to their infectious hatred of Blacks and their use of dark magic. With each showing of The Birth of a Nation, white folks surrender to the spell of this movie's sorcery, giving rise to evil forces not of this Earth that feed on hate. These forces mutate the human body, turning people into deformed creatures, and the only people that know otherwise are those who have "the sight," like the sword-wielding Maryse, the proficient sniper Sadie, and World War I veteran Chef. These three women hunt monsters, and ain't no monster bigger than the Klan.
P. Djèlí Clark does so much right here, crafting an action-packed, historical horror thriller with one hell of a potent, timely, and sadly necessary message. Its social commentary may be rooted in 1920s Americana, but the reality of 2020 is a firm reminder that we clearly haven't come very far in progressing beyond the racist attitudes that formed, shaped, and built this nation and its institutions. About all that's changed is the white hoods now wear red hats too, and the brutal slayings of Black men and women are more likely to be caught on cell phone cameras that hidden away.
I really dug the racism as monster metaphor, and it works as well it does thanks to the world-building Clark pours into this story. While plainly rooted in historical fact, the author lays in a welcome layer of supernatural mythology and cosmic horror to give it all little extra oomph and raise the stakes to Earth-shattering, destruction of all humanity levels.
Black women were largely hailed as the parties responsible for saving America in 2017 thanks to the resounding defeat of accused pedophile Roy Moore in Alabama and the broader Democratic victories in the 2018 midterm election. Clark takes a similar tack with Ring Shout, which sees three Black women faced with saving the country from not only the evils of racist whites, but extradimensional horrors that are even more malicious and bloodthirsty than the GOP. Terrifying, indeed! Maryse, Sadie, and Chef make for a hell of a trio, and I dug these gals an awful lot. A wonderful camaraderie exists between these friends and warriors, and I grew attached to each of them in short order. It's hard to not be endeared to them as they discuss French cuisine, tabloid gossip, and the histories of Black civilizations in between kicking lots and lots of ass, and guzzling stolen, prohibited liquor in a Macon jazz club. God, I loved these ladies!
Ring Shout has a lot going for it, so much so that I'm hopeful for a sequel, or perhaps even several of them. The injection of cosmic horrors points toward a reckoning of not only with America's racist history, but with the foundations of racism built into horror's literary canon. There's enough hints in the book's closing moments to indicate that Clark isn't done with these characters just yet, and if he aims to sends them north to confront a burgeoning evil in New England, well, simply put, I am fucking there for it!
on 12/4/20
action-packed creative magic entertaining story escapist/easy read great world-building high stakes imaginative rich setting(s) satisfying ending supernatural elements tense year's top 10
We don’t have them as grand in Macon, like you might see in Atlanta. But there’s Klans enough in this city of fifty-odd thousand to put on a fool march when they get to feeling to.
This one on a Tuesday, the Fourth of July, which is today.
There’s a bunch parading down Third Street, wearing white robes and pointed hoods. Not a one got their face covered. I hear them first Klans after the Civil War hid behind pillowcases and flour sacks to do their mischief, even blackened up to play like they colored. But this Klan we got in 1922 not concerned with hiding.
All of them—men, women, even little baby Klans—down there grinning like picnic on a Sunday. Got all kinds of fireworks—sparklers, Chinese crackers, sky rockets, and things that sound like cannons. A brass band competing with that racket, though everybody down there I swear clapping on the one and the three. With all the flag-waving and cavorting, you might forget they was monsters.
But I hunt monsters. And I know them when I see them.
“One little Ku Klux deaaaad,” a voice hums near my ear. “Two little Kluxes deaaaad, Three little Kluxes, Four little Kluxes, Five little Kluxes deaaaad.”
I glance to Sadie crouched beside me, hair pulled into a long brown braid dangling off a shoulder. She got one eye cocked, staring down the sights on her rifle at the crowd below as she finishes her ditty, pretending to pull the trigger.
Click, click, click, click, click!
“Stop that now.” I push away the rifle barrel with a beaten-up book. “That thing go off and you liable to make me deaf. Besides, somebody might catch sight of us.”
Sadie rolls big brown eyes at me, twisting her lips and lobbing a spitty mess of tobacco onto the rooftop. I grimace. Girl got some disgusting habits.
“I swear Maryse Boudreaux.” She slings her rifle across blue overalls too big for her skinny self and puts hands to her hips to give me the full Sadie treatment, looking like some irate yella gal sharecropper. “The way you always worrying. Is you twenty-five or eighty-five? Sometimes I forget. Ain’t nobody seeing us way up here but birds.”
She gestures out at buildings rising higher than the telegraph lines of downtown Macon. We up on one of the old cotton warehouses off Poplar Street. Way back, this whole area housed cotton coming in from countryside plantations to send down the Ocmulgee by steamboat. That fluffy white soaked in slave sweat and blood what made this city. Nowadays Macon warehouses still hold cotton, but for local factory mills and railroads. Watching these Klans shamble down the street, I’m reminded of bales of white, still soaked in colored folk sweat and blood, moving for the river.
“Not too sure about that,” Chef puts in. She sits with her back against the rooftop wall, dark lips curled around the butt of a Chesterfield in a familiar easy smirk. “Back in the war, we always watched for snipers. ‘Keep one eye on the mud, one in front, and both up top,’ Sergeant used to say. Somebody yell, ‘Sniper!’ and we scampered quick!” Beneath a narrow mustard-brown army cap her eyes tighten and the smirk wavers. She pulls out the cigarette, exhaling a white stream. “Hated fucking snipers.”
“This ain’t no war,” Sadie retorts. We both look at her funny. “I mean, it ain’t that kind of war. Nobody down there watching for snipers. Besides, only time you see Winnie is before she put one right between the eyes.” She taps her forehead and smiles crookedly, a wad of tobacco bulging one cheek.
Sadie’s no sniper. But she ain’t lying. Girl can shoot the wings off a fly. Never one day in Uncle Sam’s army neither—just hunting with her grandpappy in Alabama. “Winnie” is her Winchester 1895, with a walnut stock, an engraved slate-gray receiver, and a twenty-four-inch barrel. I’m not big on guns, but got to admit—that’s one damn pretty killer.
“All this waiting making me fidgety,” she huffs, pulling at the red-and-black-checkered shirt under her overalls. “And I can’t pass time reading fairy tales like Maryse.”
“Folktales.” I hold up my book. “Say so right on the cover.”
“Whichever. Stories ’bout Bruh Fox and Bruh Bear sound like fairy tales to me.”
“Better than those trashy tabloids you like,” I retort.
“Been told y’all there’s truth in there. Just you watch. Anyway, when we gon’ kill something? This taking too long!”
Can’t argue there. Been three-quarters of an hour now we out here and this Macon sun ain’t playing at midday. My nice plaited and pinned-up hair gone damp beneath my tan newsboy cap. Perspiration sticking my striped white shirt to my back. And these gray wool knickers ain’t much better. Prefer a summer dress loose on my hips I can breathe in. Don’t know how men stay all confined like this.
Chef stands, dusting off and taking a last savoring drag on the Chesterfield before stamping it beneath a faded Pershing boot. I’m always impressed by her height—taller than me certainly, and some men for that matter. She lean too, all dark long legs and arms fitted into a tan combat tunic and breeches. Imagine the kaiser’s men musta choked on their sauerkraut seeing her and the Black Rattlers charging in the Meuse-Argonne.
To say that I loved Ring Shout is maybe putting it mildly. This ...
To say that I loved Ring Shout is maybe putting it mildly. This book gave me life, y'all. In the midst of daily riots against the systemic racism of our American police force and the all-around racist shittiness of Trump and his sycophants (and ooooh boy, with Kamala Harris running as VP, Trump's casual, ingrained, daily racism is about to go full, spit-flying, frothing at the mouth racism, just you wait), this book is a balm. I can only hope it becomes a reckoning.
The Klan is gathering in Macon, Georgia and their numbers are growing fast thanks to their infectious hatred of Blacks and their use of dark magic. With each showing of The Birth of a Nation, white folks surrender to the spell of this movie's sorcery, giving rise to evil forces not of this Earth that feed on hate. These forces mutate the human body, turning people into deformed creatures, and the only people that know otherwise are those who have "the sight," like the sword-wielding Maryse, the proficient sniper Sadie, and World War I veteran Chef. These three women hunt monsters, and ain't no monster bigger than the Klan.
P. Djèlí Clark does so much right here, crafting an action-packed, historical horror thriller with one hell of a potent, timely, and sadly necessary message. Its social commentary may be rooted in 1920s Americana, but the reality of 2020 is a firm reminder that we clearly haven't come very far in progressing beyond the racist attitudes that formed, shaped, and built this nation and its institutions. About all that's changed is the white hoods now wear red hats too, and the brutal slayings of Black men and women are more likely to be caught on cell phone cameras that hidden away.
I really dug the racism as monster metaphor, and it works as well it does thanks to the world-building Clark pours into this story. While plainly rooted in historical fact, the author lays in a welcome layer of supernatural mythology and cosmic horror to give it all little extra oomph and raise the stakes to Earth-shattering, destruction of all humanity levels.
Black women were largely hailed as the parties responsible for saving America in 2017 thanks to the resounding defeat of accused pedophile Roy Moore in Alabama and the broader Democratic victories in the 2018 midterm election. Clark takes a similar tack with Ring Shout, which sees three Black women faced with saving the country from not only the evils of racist whites, but extradimensional horrors that are even more malicious and bloodthirsty than the GOP. Terrifying, indeed! Maryse, Sadie, and Chef make for a hell of a trio, and I dug these gals an awful lot. A wonderful camaraderie exists between these friends and warriors, and I grew attached to each of them in short order. It's hard to not be endeared to them as they discuss French cuisine, tabloid gossip, and the histories of Black civilizations in between kicking lots and lots of ass, and guzzling stolen, prohibited liquor in a Macon jazz club. God, I loved these ladies!
Ring Shout has a lot going for it, so much so that I'm hopeful for a sequel, or perhaps even several of them. The injection of cosmic horrors points toward a reckoning of not only with America's racist history, but with the foundations of racism built into horror's literary canon. There's enough hints in the book's closing moments to indicate that Clark isn't done with these characters just yet, and if he aims to sends them north to confront a burgeoning evil in New England, well, simply put, I am fucking there for it!
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